the death of the birds are at the zenith.
Who is going to bail Leningrad?
Do not make noise around – he breathes,
He is still alive, He hears everything:
How to wet the bottom of the Baltic Sea
His sons were moaning in her sleep,
As from the depths of his cries: “Of bread!”
Reach up to the seventh heaven…
But this pitiless firmament.
And looking out of all windows – death.